


Mesh

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were times Sam was in the right lace at the wrong time.</p><p>Panties. Mentions of assault and manipulation. Mentions of spanking. Also includes scenes of past Sam/Brady, Sam/demon!Brady, Sam/demon!Rachel (his prom date), Sam/Ruby, and Sam/Amelia. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Mesh

Brady had always liked to rub against his ass, to cup it, pinch it, working little shudders out of the still fairly virginal Sam. "You're just so cute," he'd tease, loving to hold him close, even encouraging Sam to sit on his lap while they watched a game, surrounding him with his arms, closer than Sam let anyone else in the state be to him.

Brady comes back from break in sophomore year drugged up, though, and different, and Sam feels less like he fits in those strong arms, feels more stiff and awkward in Brady's lap, at the sensation of his touch, feels like his ass being cupped by those same hands is a dark thing, maybe isn't who he's supposed to be anymore, is maybe a little creepy on Brady's part. He can never put his finger on why, taught and vulnerable and full of quiet reflection.

"I don't think I want to," he confesses when Brady murmurs low in his ear, pressing him against the counter in the small kitchen, rubbing slowly, almost the same way he remembers, the way he used to love, but something's off. 

Brady stills, his weight still there, constant. "Really?"

"Yeah," Sam says. Sam blinks, stares down at the crumbs on the countertop. "By the way, a gentleman backs off," he says, turning his head just a little more to try and see Brady. "Brady. Tyson."

"I hear you," the disappointed reply comes. 

"I'm okay with...touching," Sam explains. "But I don't want to fuck anymore. You know the drugs and all the fucking around makes me uncomfortable. So...we're not gonna."

The weight is gone.

He has no idea Brady's going to play dirty in order to get Sam into wanting him back inside. He has no idea that Brady has the knowledge he shouldn't about how to make Sam feel pretty.

The week he wore a pair of panties under his jeans and Dean never knew had been one of thrill and freedom. The only one who ever knew was Rachel, his prom date, cause when he'd gotten sufficiently drunk at the afterparty, she'd reached down the back of his pants, blinked, stared at him, and he'd stopped focusing on the fake flowers decorating the counter of the bathroom sink long enough to redden. "Oh," he'd said, because he'd actually forgotten, forgotten there was something wrong with that.

And she'd just kissed him harder. 

The pair of lacy blue panties made him feel powerful that night, as they had ever since he'd stolen them from the sweet woman they'd been staying with two towns back while John went on a hunt.

Well, technically he'd stolen them from his dad after they'd left, which didn't feel nearly as wrong.

God, if John had ever found out, though, Sam probably would have lost what little esteem the man still held for him right then and there. He never found out, though. Only Rachel had.

Somehow, Brady asking him if he wanted to wear the cute, lacy pair of white panties hadn't seemed suspicious to Sam. Maybe he'd been too caught up in his own hot embarrassment, his own instant excitement, a flushed, hard, desperately-interested-in-wanting-to-seem-pretty-and-worthy-of-being-wrapped-up-in-white-lace sort of excitement.

And who could have connected the dots between his determined, forward prom date and his suddenly-douchey college boyfriend? Even John couldn't have done that. Dean couldn't have. Ash probably even couldn't have.

"Let's not ruin 'em," Brady had purred, helping Sam pull them off one leg so they could fuck long and hard on the bed. "You look so pretty in 'em," he'd said.

And it had all been a lie, just one more little pressure point, one more little How To Control Sam Winchester tip from one member of Azazel's gang to another.

Sam hadn't shown Jess what he looked like in panties. He'd considered it, but he'd never gotten up the courage. With Brady, it was easier. They were just friends, and he was the one being fucked anyway. It seemed weird, deviant, to want to show poor Jess that side of himself. Maybe after she knew about the hunting. Then again...maybe not. He would never be blameless enough to do them justice anyway.

***

Ruby liked clothes. In particular, she liked cute underwear, as much as she could buy, as much as she could steal. She liked them in sets, as separates, liked to parade around in them trying to catch Sam's tired, ready-to-die gaze.

And he kind of loved her for it.

And he  _really_ loved her for how she looked so sweet. She looked like maybe she wasn't out to get him, like maybe she wasn't there just to corrupt him, like maybe what they had was almost normal, was something sort of substantial, was almost kind of good.

He remembers when she smacked him on the ass for the first time, when she insisted on a spanking, and he fell forward across the bed so she could, and she'd been so strong and he'd liked it way too much, and in the end, when he was all red and miserable as the most fulfilled suicidally-depressed person could ever be, she'd slipped her own panties up his lax thighs. They pinched and they cupped and they had a weight to them because of the difference in their sizes.

"They're a little too big for me," she'd explained, spooning behind him, wiping off his stomach with care as she flipped him on his side. "They look sweet," she'd said.

With his whole heart, he believed she thought that about him. With only part of his heart, he relaxed more into her touch.

***

Nothing he ever does is good enough for Amelia to warrant a compliment from her, a statement of praise. And he doesn't have the energy to put in any more effort than he already has, so he accepts this fate. As fates go, he's had so much worse. At least she's consistent, somewhat predictable, and sort of nice, when she thinks about it.

He's never felt less sexy in a relationship before. Not that he's that interested in sex anymore, not after what happened to those girls who'd been killed to lure him back into a town he couldn't remember, not after what had happened with Lucifer and that shadow of him that had followed Sam for nearly a year.

He's shy, sexually, in a way he can't ever remember being, but that's okay, because she doesn't expect fireworks. She doesn't expect to be blown away, to be impressed. She's not left unsatisfied. It's not, like, a _problem_. If it was, he's sure she'd let him know. She's good that way.

She leans over him one night, though, when they're in their pajamas, and she says, "Sam, what do you like?"

"What?" He's actually confused. He blinks up at her. Maybe she means what sort of music he likes. God, he's not sure anymore. Or...is it a kinky thing?

"Sexually," she explains with a roll of her eyes.

"Sorry," he blurts out, looking up at her. "I'm sorry."

"What? No." She reaches out for a moment, cups his cheek briefly, her palm warm and just a little bit comforting. "You don't have to apologize," she says. "That's not what I'm saying. You obviously get the job done. It's...about you."

"I don't like anything," he says quickly. He backtracks. "I mean, I like _you_ ," he assures.

"As much as you liked Ruby?"

"Oh god," he mutters, looks away. She'd pestered him for the names of a couple of his own exes. Jess hadn't sufficed, so he'd mentioned Ruby. He catches Amelia's gaze, gives her a stone-faced look. "Amelia," he explains. "I'll talk about Jess if you really want. But I don't talk about Ruby."

"She hurt you?" There's something softer there, a little concern. With the hand on his cheek, she pushes his hair behind his ear, then pulls away, sitting up on the bed, no contact between them anymore, and he wishes he didn't miss her touch so much already.

"I'm fine," he says. And it's neither an answer nor the truth.

***

Amelia, lazily persistent, pesters him a few more times, suggests some tips she probably found online, since she doesn't really talk to many people. Just like him. 

"Are you sure? I...don't think you feel very good about yourself," she apologizes. "Maybe we could do something for you, together?"

He's so embarrassed. "Do we have to?" he murmurs, and something in his voice breaks. They're such a bad idea, the two of them, aren't they? Who's he kidding?

"We don't even have to have sex," she points out. "Seriously. We don't have to."

"I know," he admits.

***

"You sure there's no...roleplay you'd be into?" She gently reaches out, touches his chest. "Sometimes...." She swallows.

"What?" he asks.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm taking advantage," she blurts out, and she's kind of flustered too, which calms him a little, centers him.

"I like wearing panties," he sighs heavily, pushing the knowledge out at her, hoping it keeps her at bay cause, well, it's all he's got. "At least...I did," he amends.

"With...your ex?"

"Don't," he points out.

She doesn't.

***

"These aren't bad," Amelia comments as she takes in the sight of him. "Yeah, I could get used to this."

He has a few pairs, lacy, sized correctly, and they fit so well she's kind of impressed. 

"Why the panties?" she asks.

"Dunno," he says after a moment. The truth is, they keep him in the moment better than when he doesn't have them plastered to his ass or dangling from his foot. They give him something to connect _to_. No offense meant to Amelia. 

She watches him wistfully stare at his own delicates at times. She might press a little about exes and sex, but she knows secrets sometime sustain a person and can't do that once they aren't secrets anymore.

He's a little bit delicate too. She's around to help him keep from fraying. He thinks maybe he's doing that for her too.

***

"What's the meaning of this?" he asks, and his voice is cold, is hiding fury worthy of the Boy King he still is inside, especially when it comes to suspicions about Crowley.

"It's a present," Crowley explains.

"Oh, yeah," Sam snarks. "Didn't catch that, what with the ribbon." He pushes the black cardboard box at Crowley's chest, unmovable, alive like the embers of a fire, and Crowley grasps the box, gently takes it from Sam.

"That's really fucking adorable, Crowley. Did Ruby tell you, or did Brady?"

Crowley assesses Sam for a moment. "Are you gonna like my answer either way?" Sam's eyes further narrow. "I heard it from the grapevine, and that's all you really need to know. If you don't like them, you don't have to keep them, by any means." He plucks them out of the box, holds them up to the light. "Thought it'd get you all hot and bothered," he says teasingly.

Sam's fists clench, and his eyes flash. Crowley's lucky that he hasn't gotten any closer since pushing the box back at him. "It's not about that, for me," he says coolly. "It's not _like_ that. Not that I'm not wasting my time. A demon's never gonna understand. Humans either, though, really. And certainly not whatever the hell you are."

"It's about innocence," Crowley says, smug but also sorry about it underneath. He has the man's attention. He adds knowingly, "Purity."

There's a sudden shock of sensation across his face, a whoosh, and he's down on the ground. The empty box slides along the carpet about a foot or so, fairly inconsequential at the moment. It's Sam that matters. The panties are still in Crowley's hand, closed in his fist. 

"It's about feeling clean," Crowley calls calculatingly after the hunter as he starts to conclude his dramatic exit. Sam pauses with a grunt, his back toward the demon, his shoulders tensing.

"I like things that make me feel that way too," Crowley points out. "You yourself make me feel that way."

"Don't," Sam bites out. "Don't fucking _talk_ to me."

***

Sam's calmer when they see each other next, is sorry he reacted the way he did, though not sure how to say it for a moment. So he just crosses his arms.

"If it was a mistake, buying those for you, I'm sorry," Crowley admits.

"I'm sorry too," Sam says slowly. "Not that you can't take a punch. But, honestly, you shouldn't have to. 'Specially not from me."

"We both screwed up. I wanted you to feel the way you used to feel when you wore them for the others, for yourself. Because...that's the way you are. That's the way I see you, anyway. Even when you were trying to kill me," he adds with a hint of good humor. "I think that's expecting a bit much, after the hell you've been through, though."

"Don't pull that with me." Sam's cool again, and Crowley recognizes Sam's pain, Sam's walls. "Your honesty may be fleeting but it's what I need from you. I don't like being played. Not by other demons, and definitely not by you."

"How am I not being honest?"

"You don't have to feel sorry for me. And you don't have to...talk about me like that."

"You were willing to die for me," Crowley says. "To cure me. And to take the rest of the demons out of the world. And not out of some ridiculous gesture, out of real strength."

"That didn't pan out," Sam says bitterly. 

"We've talked about it all before; I know. And I was there. But here's something we don't talk about from that night, Sam: You wanted to prove to your brother you were worthy of his forgiveness. You wanted to prove you do some good. You _do_. Thought maybe those skimpy little things would say it better than I could. Thought they'd be more believable. It's okay if I'm wrong; you get used to it, at my age." His eyes sparkle. Sam watches them, watches Crowley watch him. He says nothing for a while; he can't.

***

"See? You're perfect," Crowley assures as they stand in front of the large mirror. "This is what you look like, to me. Surprisingly strong, delicate to a deceptive degree. Lily white down to your poor soul. You don't know it any more than these things know themselves, but it's all true, all evidentiary." He reaches out to brush at the lace over Sam's hip, then, for a bit of fun, snapping the elastic.

"Hey!" Sam slaps Crowley's hand away.

"Another thing you have in common: a dick would look great fitted inside you."

"Oh my god. _Shut up_ ," Sam says.

"Do you like them?"

"I'm not answering that. It's too soon," Sam huffs. 

"Well, I like you."

"Yeah, well, you'd be the first. To know where I fall short and still think it's...."

"Still think it's worth it?" the demon murmurs. He catches Sam's gaze in the mirror and knows. He reaches for Sam's hip again, stroking. "Yeah, well, we're not having sex, yet. You're gonna walk around in these and get used to the way they make you look, the way they make you feel."

"Oh, am I?" he raises a brow.

"This is hardly the prom afterparty, love. We've got time."

"Rachel," Sam sighs heavily. 

"Rachel," says Crowley. "Of course, that's not her real name."

"I killed her. Lucifer...killed her."

"I know."

"I killed Brady."

"I know."

"I held Ruby still, and Dean stuck her with her own knife."

"I know."

Sam shakes his head at Crowley. "You must have a death wish," he says.

"There's a difference, Moose." Sam looks down at his hips, at his crotch, doubtful, tired of the platitudes. "I only play you when I have to," Crowley presses.

Sam doesn't let his amusement manifest in even the slightest smile as he turns from the mirror to look at Crowley for real. "Yeah, well, don't count on outliving me. These ones were expensive, weren't they?"

"You have no idea."

"Maybe I do," Sam points out. "Maybe I understand the cost better than a lot of people."

Crowley raises a brow. "Big talker. You keep being so profound, I'm gonna change my mind about waiting a bit to hit that."

"Oh, so it's the way I talk?"

"I've said as much," Crowley points out.

Sam blinks. "Yeah, maybe you have," he concedes.

"I could tell you I'm not Brady or Ruby. I could tell you I don't get teenage boys drunk like Rachel. But I've been just like them, and in some ways been worse. I'd like to show you that isn't me anymore, though," he reaches out, resting his hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'd like to show you why I chase your goodness around, why I like the light that shines out of your pert little arse. And what I see in your actions that makes me certain you're my redemption, my grace-filled savior." 

"That's a lot of words from a man not wanting to deceive me."

"I have the gift of gab, darling. I might as well use it."

Sam sighs. "Well, I got a gift now too, I guess. I might as well use it." He glances at the part of him he can see past Crowley in the mirror, admiring for a moment.

Crowley taps Sam's nose, and his eyes light up slightly. "That's what I like to hear," the demon rumbles.

"Seriously, don't," Sam adds, grasping Crowley's wrist before he can snap the waistband again. 

"I heard you don't mind a little redness to your skin," Crowley teases.

Sam covers his hot face with his other hand. "Holy shit, Crowley. You guys can't keep your fucking mouths shut, can you?"

"It's a gift," Crowley reminds him.


End file.
